


Indigo Oceans

by anotherjadedwriter



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aftercare, Chucklevoodoos, Explicit Consent, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, consensual chucklevoodoo use, fluffy sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 22:07:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11609913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherjadedwriter/pseuds/anotherjadedwriter
Summary: Ever since you met Kurloz, or at least since you started dating him, you've been curious how chucklevoodoos feel, and he seems more willing than you'd imagined to try them with you.





	Indigo Oceans

You don’t visit Kurloz all the time. He wants privacy, especially here, and you don’t need constant attention. You miss him, of course, the way you miss anyone you care for, but knowing he’s comfortable enough on his own after all the tumult when he first arrived is enough that you can ignore the ache in your pusher. If you thought he’d be comfortable, you might just move in. He has this wonderfully enveloping presence, like you’re walking into what makes him himself and being, not changed, but slipped into a spot that feels made for you.

When you do visit him, it’s better for the waiting, the denying yourself the feeling of being surrounded. He pulls you inside with a wide grin, kissing your face and wrapping his arms around you, halfway waltzing through the threshold. He’s wonderful, cold and huge and delicate, giving you this fond look like you’re everything he could hope for and more. 

You always kiss him first, because he’s not the kind to start that on his own, though when you’ve held off for the sake of not worrying he wasn’t interested, he always placed himself close enough to kiss, always leaned over you, curled you not exactly to his chest, more face to face.

Kissing him is perfect. Perfect like Meulin, or like Mituna, perfect in his own way that makes your pusher skip a beat when he drags his tongue over your bottom lip. Kurloz curls his hands around you, one at the back of your head and one over your hip, a low, rumbling purr bubbling out of his throat. He’s delicate, pushing encouragingly against your hands, for more of anything you offer, more running through his hair, more sliding down his sides, more everything.

“What’s it like?” You breathe, against his lips. He’s so close, but he had to stop kissing you because of that annoying thing about breathing. His eyes are on yours, unwavering, a gorgeous indigo that makes you weak at the knees, which makes it lucky that you’re sitting in his block on a pile of shirts that smell like him and make you want to curl into them for a sweep. “Chucklevoodoos? What do they feel like if they’re in my pan?”

He doesn’t need as much convincing as you’d thought he might have needed. He just agrees, his eyes still glittering in front of yours, maybe he likes the idea of it more than you’d assumed. It’s hypnotic, and you only realize that after everything starts turning indigo, after you feel him in your head more than his hands on your hip, your wrist. It feels like everything is filling with purple.

It feels first like a heavy, wet blanket, a blanket drenched in indigo draped over your head and neck. Slowly, the weight settles, spreads, and it feels like cement under your skin, but good, each point of contact with your clothing tingling deliciously, a cold heat spreading from your pan to your body. You feel his interest, his want for you to feel good, to look up at him with a bright grin while he pails you, turning your head to kiss his fingers in a way you, honestly, never realized you tended to.

Then it’s different, because he kisses you. It’s hot, hotter, you can feel everything so much more and it makes your pan loose, slush, purple slush. You almost warn him not to lay you down, but he just chuckles when you mumble about being tipped over. His lips find your neck, and the faint indigo glow everything in the block has is relaxing, almost enough that the feeling of his teeth on your neck and his satisfaction in your pan can be ignored.

But not quite. You can feel every point of his teeth as he delicately moves down, feel the way his excitement doesn’t– doesn’t burst, but bubbles, slowly, simmering up from the depths of him. He’s not reluctant, just slow to act. And it feels good to bring him up to a boil, with you, beside you, in your skull. He’s so big, with those soft hands and the way he says your name like a prayer, like you know he prays.

His hand slides down your chest, over your front, and then he’s kissing you, and you can’t split your mind between both points, it’s a lot, and you moan around his tongue when he focuses your pan firmly on your bulge, on his hand against it. You feel it so… Much. So much of your attention, your feelings, his feelings. It’s a lot, it’s so much, and you beg him, when you can breathe, for more. Even when you breathe it feels like water, you need to kiss him.

Your nook is wet and desperately empty, twitching with want, and you can tell he knows, can feel that simmering excitement boil just a bit higher, and it makes you want more. His fingers press at the damp spot between your thighs, through your pants, and it’s suddenly too much, makes your body convulse and writhe against him.

“Fuck!” You claw into his arm and he winces, kissing you, trying to soothe but it’s so much that it just hurts. You can feel the claws in his arm through the indigo in your pan. “Fuck, I’m, I’m–”

The Highblood just purrs at you as you shake, spilling in your pants and sobbing, too sensitive but still so fucking needy. You need him the same way you need water, air, regularly, desperately, and he’s just peppering little kisses over your face that make you shudder. “Alright?” His thumb rolls against the base of your bulge, just barely finished coming out when you’d spilled, and it hurts but it’s good.

“So fucking good, Kurloz.” You whine, his throaty chuckle rolling through your pan in waves of good like the only thought you’ve ever wanted to have and it’s so much and so good and– “No, no, come back, please. Don’t stop, don’t leave.”

His weight in your pan is less, and it feels like a loss. You want him to take over, to have every memory and every feeling of yours as his own. You want. “Will.” You whimper, even as he peels your pants off, lifts you to remove your shirt, his nose against your collarbone. “Would not leave you alone, flushcrush, roseblood.” He seeps back into your pan when you’re naked, gentle as ever, and you feel fleshed out, full, with him there, with everything pale purple and glowing and warm.

Warm, that keeps echoing in your pan, in his voice, and you try not to purr too much at the praise, at feeling his cold hands slowly warm against your skin, like you’re seeping into him the way he’s filling the empty spaces in your pan, like you’re mixing, violet paint. His teeth feel like everything when they press against your skin, he feels like everything, and you can’t imagine that this is how chucklevoodoos normally feel. You feel complete, not controlled. His pusher is beating so fast under your fingers.

Somewhere, you can feel where you end, where he is, the difference and knowing that you’re not one complete troll, but at this point it just feels like hollowness, like needing to be filled and that is, almost certainly, because you’re wet and naked and surrounded by him, his scent, his color, his voodoos and not yet being pailed to within an inch of your life, like you’d prefer. You want him to be all of it, you want to be part of him, you want his bulge.

This sort of wanting, aching feeling is self-indulgent at best. You can feel the coiled heat in his pan, the twist of his bulge slow and wet against your thigh, even through his pants. “Clothes.” You murmur, pulling at his vest, but instead of managing to push it off, you just pull him down to kiss him instead, because it’s good and he’s good and you love the way he laughs when you do.

He does, eventually, pull back from you and strip out of his clothes, low rumbling noises drowning out everything else when you follow the articles’ paths with your mouth, kissing his collarbone, his arm. You’re giggling, when you drag yourself down to kiss his side, nuzzling against his stomach with a grin, and he’s laughing too, tilting your head up, repositioning you to kiss you breathless some more.

You purr as you pull back, feeling like you’re drowning in indigo air even as you touch him, even with him solid and real under your fingers. He leans his head back with a hum, and you trace his pulse, up from his collarbone to his jaw, and turn his head, kissing him as it fills your pan again, that drowning. You feel full, like you’ve eaten a good meal but not quite, when his pan clouds your own.

Kurloz slides his hands under you and you’re floating when he moves you, everything too slow and too thick syrup-sweet for you to think, but then you’re in his lap and it’s perfect. He usually prefers you set the pace, laying back and letting you climb over him, even playing along when you hold his hands down to the platform, but this is good, too. This is great, even, because he’s got you pressed to his chest, his chin nestled between your horns and his hands on your back. Your arms loop around his neck and he purrs, pressing you closer, pulling your hips against his own.

You feel him, his pan, his body, feel the way he feels electricity when you touch him, the way he has to struggle not to melt under you, a glacier, a cold wall of a troll struggling not to give in to you. It’s a lot, like fire up your spine, if you’re honest. You lick his jaw, probably sloppier than you intend because everything feels underwater, and he shivers, laying sideways into the pile to keep you curled against him. He kisses you again, edging into ‘needy’, his hands leaving your back to lead his bulge, the blunt tip of it twisting against your nook, wet and heavy.

Kurloz sobs against your mouth when you rock down to push it in, his claws biting into your hip, the feeling reverberating in your pan; he thinks a lot of poetic things when you pail, apparently, more than he even mumbles to you when you’re both catching your breath and you’re just petting his hair. His voodoos feel – or, they seem to feel – more liquid, pouring into the cracks of your pan because he’s focusing harder on you, under his hands and warm and around his bulge and hot. He kisses your throat, soft and adoring and perfect, purring and open-mouthed as you try not to shudder out of his hands.

“Good?” He murmurs, nose against your jaw, the edge of a joke in his voice and his hands pressing you against himself. He must know that you’re enjoying it, because he doesn’t press you for more when you just moan, pushing down against his hold, even when you can feel him (feel what his bulge feels, feel his pulse under your hands where they’re splayed on his chest, feel every inch of both of your bodies because everything feels syrup-slow and sweet but sharp) trying to gentle you into it.

He kisses your neck when you turn your head, press your face into the pile, into a shirt of his that you’re pretty sure he pulled out of the hamper. You want him closer, and when he worries that that might hurt you you want that, too, anything he can give you. You want him desperately enough that he could do a lot worse than make you sore for a night and you’d still want him, or at least it feels like that now.

You’re broken out of the reverie by him kissing the base of your horn. You’re further reminded of the real world where he’s large and delicate and full of flowery poetry that makes your chest sort of ache with how good it feels to be wanted like that when he mouths over your horn; his tongue flicks over the tip and you groan, dig your claws into his arm. He makes a sort of low, crooning noise and it’s a lot, it makes you shiver against him, makes you push his head away before you’re too overwhelmed, though he doggedly trails kisses down the side of your head, nipping the shell of your ear before pressing his face against your neck.

It hits you a few seconds later, as his shifting hips get close enough now to make you sob, his bulge pressed into your seedflap and his hands holding you tight. Like you’re an anchor, like he needs you in every physical capacity. It hits that you’re babbling, a low, barely-coherent stream of “yes please yes Kurloz, Kurloz, Kurloz“. You only even realize because he does, the information passing benignly into your pan through the connection of his voodoos. It’s comforting to feel how it makes him feel, makes his pusher stutter and his throat tight because you want him and you want him that much.

Why do you ever not have them in your head? He’s so close, you can taste his breath, and he’s in you, in your pan, his pusher beating along out of time with your own under your palm, his eyelashes brushing against your neck. The intimacy of it, of feeling his feelings and knowing his thoughts, is overwhelming, makes you have to cling to what you know of yourself to keep from melting into him completely, or at least it feels like that, and you only do that because he reminds you to.

He reminds you in low, warm whispers that he wouldn’t let that happen. As much as he adores you, he wants you as you are. You get a little caught up on the word adores and it makes your face red, your pusher fluttering in your throat, but he doesn’t mind, just smiles against your skin. It’s always a mix of embarrassing and delightful when he says things like that, but now it’s overwhelming, nearly drowning out every thought you might have with his want for you.

You pull his face back with a probably-too-rough grip on his hair (it makes his spine tingle, he wants it but isn’t sure, you feel guilty the second you do it) and kiss him, biting his bottom lip as his bulge folds itself so he can press his hips against yours, completely inside of you. “Fuck, Kur-K-I’m, nnm.” You groan, hips twitching against his, even when he rolls you onto your back, presses you into the pile, his hands fanning out on your chest.

He sits up and just for a second you see yourself through his eyes, flushed and twitching against the pile, your mouth open and wet, your eyes half-lidded, your neck, your chest (he moves his hands, taking stock), your hips, the soft, spread expanse of your thighs, your skin, the red of your nook spread obscenely around his bulge, all observed with the kind of reverence you’d only expect if you were an altar. As soon as you think that, the connection is closed, ever so slightly, and you can see him again, over you, though you still feel the reverence he has looking at you through the mess of his hair.

“Please kiss me. I love you so much.” You can feel his eyes on your mouth as you speak, and you want to have him closer, his arms back around you and his mouth on yours again. “I love you. I want you.”

Kurloz purrs, leaning against you to kiss your jaw, meandering his way to your mouth. His teeth drag at your bottom lip, cold against you, inside you, and you feel the way he feels when your nook flutters around his bulge, smothering heat. He moans, curls tighter around you. His face presses to your neck again, hands sliding over your back and his pan full of you, how you feel, your heat, your skin, the soft, sublime, he thinks, noises you’re making. Sublime.

If you weren’t already flushed, you would turn red, with all the things he thinks about you. He knows how well poetry works on you, but he’s been using it since before he knew, and you can’t be upset about being called a glowing lover, astral, gorgeous. He usually just wants to lay with you, his arms around you and his face in your hair, your neck. Softly affectionate. You want to kiss him but you don’t want to move him, even if it’s nice to have your pans sync up with just touch.

You like the soft, purplish glow his eyes make when he’s using his voodoos, and the way thinking that makes his face heat against your neck. He’s adorable. He’s gorgeous, perfect, his hair curling softly around your fingers when you slide your hands into it, tightening your legs around him in a hug of sorts. He’s a lot to hold, but it’s good, you like the way his weight presses you into the pile, the way he can loom over you or cover you completely.

Kurloz’s face gets hotter, his ears purple when you turn to look at him, pulling his head up to kiss him again, liquid heat bubbling in your stomach. “I love you.” You kiss him again, crooning softly against his mouth as he moves, gentles you through it until your arms go limp and your noises are weak. “Love you. Kurloz, love you.” You pant against his hair, your neck arched up so he can kiss it more easily.

“Wonderous.” His voice is low, harsh, almost. Deep. “Flush-darling. Like roses.”

You’re almost dizzy over the praise. Too much. Mixed with the tides of indigo, the ebb and flow, you could almost cry at how gently he holds you, moves you, speaks to and about you. You turn your head, like you need to look away from him, even with him hiding his face. His pan is so much, everything swirling together, what he wants (holding you, you over him, your teeth on his neck, your hands holding his head down by the horns), what he feels (hot, wet, adoration, love, want, hot), all of it, so much sensation compacted by the feeling of him moving over you, inside you.

Kissing him again is like breathing, so necessary to continuing to live that you’d laugh if you could. He tastes cold and perfect, his hands on your chest, one sliding up to catch your chin and you can feel the surge of need like yours. He needs you, needs to kiss you, needs all of it.

Kurloz sobs, grinds into you, and you’re overwhelmed. His pan wraps around you like a blanket, and you feel all of it, all of him. His body, his mind, you experience every feeling he has, every desire, feel him spilling and clinging desperate to you, the satisfaction he has for how his fingers bite into your thigh just so. You can taste the sharp breaths he’s heaving against your shoulder, and then you can’t.

The connection snaps closed and you feel despair. The deepest, most intense sadness you can imagine; you’re crying before you realize it, clawing at his back and sobbing. “Come back, come back, come back, please, Kurloz. Kurloz, come back to me, please, I, please, need you.” Your face is wet under his fingers cupping your cheek.

“Love.” He presses his forehead to yours and the despair wanes, eases, indigo fog again pooling in your pan. “Would not leave, never. Never.”

His lips press against your face, your lips, your hairline, purring, soothing, and you’re caught off guard when your seedflap absorbs and closes around the material in you. He muffles your achy moans with a kiss, presses his full weight against you, pressing you into the pile, nuzzling against your face. You can feel the soft, receding drag of his chucklevoodoos, the lingering warmth of his regard. He stays pressed to you, even when his eyes stop glowing and you’re just shaking.

“Flushmate, redlove.” He purrs, stroking through your hair, kisses your neck. It’s calming, your body relaxing under his hands. “Perfect. Wonderful. Gorgeous.”

You lift your arms, feeling leaden and sweaty, and pull him down to kiss him again. “I’m so happy. I loved that. Being surrounded by you.” His neck flushes and you stroke his jaw, giggling. “You’re so good to me, Kurloz.” You haven’t felt this tired in a long time, and not usually from pailing.

He just hums, curling around you and pulling you onto your side, tucking himself against you, his head under your chin, and you can’t help but snicker at how he hides against your neck, how he holds you like he needs to protect you but needs you against him like a shield. As you come back into your pan, you murmur against the base of his horn, tell him how lovely he is, how good he makes you feel. It makes it easier to think clearly around the sharp, bright feelings only you can feel to talk to him, feel him relax against you.

He’s cold, solid, his hair soft against your face, and in short order he’s asleep, rumbling with a sleepy, soft purr. You’ll take a shower when you get up, or more likely, he’ll carry you to his tub and kiss your neck and shoulders while he washes you, nuzzling against your hair adoringly and insisting that you just let him do it. Either way. The soreness creeping at the edge of your awareness is almost immediately soothed just imagining him petting you, taking his time washing you to grope your chest and legs.

Perfect, he’s perfect, and you drift off curled with him, breathing in the scent of him and surrounded by indigo on the walls, the shirts, showing under his skin in his veins. You should visit him more often.

**Author's Note:**

> whats up me again back at it with the weird half-baked concepts on telepathy, this time: empaths and emotional manipulation for the purpose of both parties enjoying themselves more, emotional mirroring, and generally just making sex feel even better.  
> if you like my half-baked ideas, buy me a coffee: https://ko-fi.com/A781PZJ


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